The Shattered Marque
by Kryptaria
Summary: After living at Baker Street for almost two years, John Watson thought he'd learned everything there was to know about his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. But when the gruesome murder of a foreign fashion designer opens a door into the exotic, mysterious world of the D'Angelines, he realizes just how little he actually knows.
1. Chapter 1

Strange noises were nothing new at 221B Baker Street, though these most often took the form of explosions, violin screeches, or on one memorable occasion the characteristic clattering of a rattlesnake. The startled shout-and-thump from the sofa, though, was definitely a new one, especially given that the sofa was occupied by a sleeping, solitary Sherlock Holmes.

Or the sofa _had been_ so occupied. John turned in time to see Sherlock, now wide-eyed and very much awake, sitting up between the sofa and the coffee table, nostrils flared as he gasped for breath.

"Sherlock?" John abandoned his breakfast and rushed into the living room, wondering if this was the result of some chemical experiment brought on by boredom. Or perhaps he'd just rolled over and fallen off the sofa, and the shout had been one of pain, not fear.

"John," Sherlock whispered tightly. He thrashed clumsily to disentangle himself from his dressing gown and the blanket John had draped over him last night, when he'd realised Sherlock was on the sofa for the duration.

In the year and a half they'd been living together, he'd never known Sherlock to have anything resembling a dream, much less a nightmare. And he was never anything but graceful, or at the very least dramatic.

Abruptly, John shoved the coffee table aside to make room to kneel down beside Sherlock. He tugged Sherlock off the floor and back onto the sofa. Still struggling to catch his breath, Sherlock drew up his legs, pressed his heels to the edge of the cushion, and bowed his head to his knees. John wrapped a hand around Sherlock's wrist to feel his pulse: fast but strong, which was a relief.

John bit back his questions and retrieved the blanket from the floor to drape it around Sherlock's shoulders. He braced for a protest that didn't come, and Sherlock's docility only increased John's concern. Gently, he rested a hand on Sherlock's back, feeling the rise and fall of his shoulders as he gained control of his breathing, and John started to breathe easier as well. Whatever had happened, it seemed to have no lasting effects.

"Tea?" John finally offered, starting to rise.

Sherlock's hand lashed out, catching John's forearm. He looked up, his eyes dark, pupils dilated. "Stay," he said. It came out more like a plea than a command.

All of John's worry came back in a rush. He sat back down with a little nod, reassuring Sherlock, "All right."

Slowly, Sherlock released his grip and rested his forehead on his knees again. He dug his long fingers into his hair and clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles went white.

John looked at the imprints of Sherlock's fingers on his forearm; bruises were already forming. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, too worried to be angry.

"No."

"Right," John agreed. He got comfortable, wondering if he should try and rub Sherlock's back or if he should just sit quietly. Sherlock hated to be touched, though, so John just sat beside him and stared at the back of Sherlock's head, wishing he knew how to help.

* * *

By the time Sherlock's BlackBerry buzzed an hour later, everything seemed back to normal, or so John hoped.

They had spent ten silent, tense minutes on the sofa. Then, without warning, Sherlock had shrugged off the blanket and asked John, "Are you going out?"

"Hadn't planned on it. Did you need something?" John asked, wondering if the incident, whatever it was, had ended.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Just... don't go anywhere."

Confused, John nodded his agreement. "All right."

With a brusque nod, Sherlock left the living room and disappeared through the kitchen. A moment later, John heard the shower running, and he returned to his cold breakfast. When Sherlock emerged, he was dressed in one of his perfect suits, his eyes sharp, wet hair as tamed as it ever got.

"Coffee," was all he said as he swept through the kitchen and into the living room, where he sat down at the table and opened his laptop, expecting John to play waiter.

Still worrying over the morning's strange incident, John gave in and carried his mug and Sherlock's to the table. "Anything interesting?" he asked, opening his own laptop.

"No." Sherlock scowled as if he'd expected otherwise.

John leaned back in his chair and shook his head as he skimmed the top story on BBC News. "French separatists are asking the UN to force the D'Angeline government to restore Ville d'Elua to its original name, Paris."

"That's _not_ its original name, and it won't happen."

Surprised by the comment, John glanced up at Sherlock, whose attention was still fixed on his own laptop. "You've heard of France First?"

"It's _France d'Abord,_ and they're radicals playing on anti-D'Angeline prejudice." Sherlock did look up then. "They forget the D'Angelines _are_ French. They're essentially rebelling against themselves."

"Since when do you know anything about international politics?" John asked, wondering if Sherlock had been replaced by an evil twin some time in the night. Or, well, a _less-evil_ twin.

Sherlock met John's eyes, his expression absolutely neutral. "In 1817, the English-D'Angeline alliance ended the French Revolution, restoring the ousted D'Angeline government to power. The _France d'Abord_ movement didn't gain momentum until the UN Slavery, Indentured Servitude, and Apprenticeship ruling in 1963 ruled the D'Angeline voluntary education system as apprenticeship and therefore legal," Sherlock said without hesitation, as though reading from a textbook.

John stared at him. "Dear god, you sound like Mycroft."

Sherlock turned his attention back to his laptop. "Terre d'Ange is too isolationist to hold Mycroft's interests. He loathes the idea of a government whose national policy is 'live and let live'."

"Surprised you don't live there."

Sherlock looked up, eyes wide. "What?"

"You know, to avoid Mycroft," John said, startled by Sherlock's reaction. Not for the first time, and surely not for the last, he wondered what Sherlock was thinking. "Or — Oh, is it the religion?"

"For a writer, your linguistic skills are deplorable. Is _what_ the religion?"

John gritted his teeth, sipped his coffee, and told himself to ignore Sherlock's tactlessness, as he always did. "Terre d'Ange — Land of Angels. The whole society's based on the idea of angels visiting them in the mythical past. Some of them still think they have angelic ancestry, don't they?"

Sherlock huffed and looked away again, tapping sharply at his keyboard. Before John could say anything more, the text alert interrupted. Sherlock snatched at the mobile as if he'd been expecting the text, though he barely glanced at it before he rose.

"Murder," he told John as he headed for the door. "Coming?"

John took one last gulp of coffee and nodded. "Details?"

Sherlock shot him a strange, haunted look. "Nothing confirmed," was all he would say.

* * *

The taxi dropped John and Sherlock at a side street in an upscale district of warehouses turned into lofts, expensive boutiques, and antique stores. Yellow tape cordoned off half the street and both the east and north sidewalks around a brick and glass three-story building. A white tent outside the building served as a staging area for the police. John followed Sherlock into the tent without challenge. By now, they were recognised by most of the officers under Lestrade's command.

"Good morning, Greg," John said almost cheerfully.

Lestrade was drinking coffee with a desperate air, still dressed in his blue coveralls. "You say that now," he answered in warning, letting John know that this was going to be bad.

They'd developed a routine at crime scenes. Sherlock would break the rules, John would follow them, and Lestrade would pretend that the two cancelled one another out. So it was perfectly normal for John to reach for one of the blue coveralls on the folding table in the tent, following the rules at a scene of crime.

What wasn't normal, though, was the way Sherlock divested himself of the coat and scarf he wore like armour, and everything seemed to stop. When he actually ripped open a jumpsuit package and pulled the plasticised cloth over his perfect suit, John swore he felt the world tilt sharply.

John exchanged a look with Lestrade, who was struck silent. Apprehension churning in his gut, John followed his flatmate's example and suited up, including gloves and booties. John had taken to carrying a small assortment of necessities on cases — lockpicks, paperclips, a roll of gauze bandaging, paracetamol, and a small torch. He transferred the torch to an outside pocket of the jumpsuit, considered for a moment, and then added the paracetamol. Today seemed a likely day for Sherlock-inflicted headaches.

"Sherlock..." he began, and then went dead silent as Sherlock actually pulled a white hood over his untamed hair.

Licking dry lips, John followed Sherlock inside the building and into the cargo lift. Lestrade stepped in behind them, pulled the gate closed, and pressed one of the control buttons. As the lift rattled and began to ascend, John glanced at Sherlock. He could recognise the signs of Sherlock's fierce concentration, but his demeanour was subtly changed by something that in another person John would have called distress or even fear.

John found himself wishing he'd brought his gun, which was ridiculous. They were surrounded by police officers. He told himself they were safe, though he resolved to stay close to Sherlock's side, just in case.

The lift stopped at the first floor. Through the open wooden gate, John could see a huge space that stretched to the far side of the building. The wall was entirely glass, showing the rainy gray morning sky. Cloth-draped metal tables filled the space, most of them with built-in sewing machines. To the left, the brick wall was almost hidden behind huge spools of fabric and bolts stacked on shelves. The prevalent colours were red, orange and gold. Partially dismembered mannequins were scattered throughout the space on metal stands, a few of them wearing fantastically impractical outfits.

"Theatrical costumer's?" John guessed.

"Atelier," Sherlock said, as if that explained anything.

John held back his sarcastic response. On a good day, Sherlock was stroppy enough without provoking a lecture on observation and relative stupidity. And today was proving to be a very, very bad day. So John kept silent, trailed along in his wake, and hoped that the puzzle would be enough to occupy Sherlock's brain.

Police were everywhere, combing the tables and floor for any evidence. The way they were avoiding Lestrade's eye spoke eloquently of the serious nature of the crime, making John wonder if the victim was famous. Lestrade ignored the other officers as he led the way to a doorway at the far end of the workshop, by the huge wall of windows, where Donovan was waiting.

"What've you got?" Lestrade asked.

She barely glanced at Sherlock, though her mouth was set in a tight line. "My contact at the tax office got back to me, confirmed she's got dual-citizenship."

"Shit," Lestrade muttered.

"You learned all that in the... forty minutes since Lestrade called me? Well done, you," Sherlock drawled. "I can't believe you get paid for this. A child could've found out more by looking up the victim on Twitter."

"Don't," Lestrade snapped. He favoured Sherlock and Sergeant Donovan both with equally fierce glares. "Save it for another day."

Ignoring Lestrade, Sherlock stepped into the doorway and stopped so abruptly that John bumped into his back. Silhouetted against the rain-grey windows that continued into the smaller back room, he looked like a shadowy ghost. John touched his arm without thinking. When Sherlock's head turned fractionally, John jerked his hand back.

But this time, Sherlock turned back and touched _him_ in response, a brush of fingers over John's artificial blue sleeve, before he walked carefully into the room. With each step, Sherlock paused to look around, taking in every detail. John followed, trying his best to emulate his example, though he knew it was hopeless. The things he noticed — the cleanliness of the kitchenette, the smell of lavender, the general arrangement of the furniture — weren't things that would solve the crime.

The room had been turned into a small but posh loft. Kitchenette to the left by the windows, desk to the right with fashion sketches pinned to the wall above. Just beyond the desk, the living area had a leather settee, armchair, and immense television hanging on the wall. An unmade double bed was tucked diagonally into the far left corner against the windows, blankets thrown back in a rough triangle as though the occupant had awakened in the middle of the night. Sturdy metal racks filled the corner opposite the bed, packed with brightly coloured clothes on wire hangers.

The victim was partially obscured by the settee. John could see one graceful, dark-skinned arm, fingers curled slightly, manicured nails cropped short and painted a garish shade of red that matched the riot of fabrics in the workshop. Her black hair was sleek and straight, cut in an almost boyish style.

Sherlock prowled around the room for a minute before he returned to the dead woman and crouched down on the balls of his feet. John circled to the other side of the body, avoiding the blood that had spread in violent tendrils from her back. The pattern was all wrong, but John couldn't quite put his finger on why.

As he knelt down, he glanced up and saw droplets of blood on the drop-ceiling and the recessed light overhead. "God," he whispered. He tried to imagine the quick, strong knife strokes that could have splattered blood on the ceiling without making more of a mess in the area.

Sherlock looked at him, then followed his gaze. His frown deepened as he turned his attention back to the dead woman and whispered, _"Béni Elua vous garde."_

John didn't speak D'Angeline. "Elua?" he asked, fixing on the only word he recognised. According to legend, Elua was the son of Christ and Mother Earth. With a small group of angels who had defected from Heaven, Elua had founded Terre d'Ange. Supposedly, their blood had intermixed with the original French who'd lived there, granting their descendants a measure of grace and extraordinary beauty.

"She was D'Angeline," he said, pointing with one gloved finger at the dead woman's back. "An adept of Eglantine House. You can see her marque."

The little bottle of paracetamol rattled in John's pocket as he retrieved the torch. He snapped it on and directed the light where Sherlock was pointing. Fine black lines were barely visible under the dark, congealed blood. A brief search showed more lines on her ribs and shoulder blades, curves following her spine all the way up to her shoulders. He recalled something about the marque being tattooed in small stages, starting at the base of the spine, finishing just below the hairline.

"Doesn't this mean she's no longer an apprentice?" he asked, pointing at the finely drawn lines at the nape of her neck.

Sherlock nodded. "The marque is designed so that by the time the apprentice pays the cost of the marquist — the tattoo artist — the House has recouped the cost of the apprentice's training. To 'make one's marque' means the apprentice has finished training and repaid his or her debt to the House and is now an adept."

"Well, someone wanted her marque eradicated." John began to move the light over her back, counting the wounds. "None of these wounds were deep enough to have been fatal. Almost every line is cut, though..." He sat back on his heels, looking at the pattern of the blood as an idea struck him. "There are no signs of a struggle. I don't think she fought back. She wasn't even awake for any of this — small mercy."

"Good," Sherlock said very quietly.

John glanced up at him. He'd never known Sherlock to express sympathy over a victim. "Did you know her?"

Sherlock looked across the body to meet John's eyes. He nodded. "Zoe nó Eglantine-Moreau. She's — she _was _my designer."

"Your —"

"Clothes, John." Sherlock shook his head and looked back down. "My family has a contract with Atelier Moreau. She founded the company only three years ago," he added softly.

"So, we'll find your name in her records," Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded again. "All of us, yes. She had us come here twice a year for measurements."

"When's the last —"

"Four months ago." Sherlock glared at Lestrade for a moment before turning his attention back to the dead woman. "John?"

"Right," John said, and resumed his examination. "Time of death late last night, between, say, midnight and three, maybe four. Death most likely brought on by the exsanguination, but..." He extended his hand and glanced questioningly at Lestrade, who nodded his permission, so John touched the back of her head, carefully feeling beneath her sleek black hair. "Aha. She was struck, knocked unconscious."

Lestrade nodded. "What hit her?"

"It didn't have a sharp edge. Her scalp isn't cut. Maybe something lightly padded?" John guessed.

Abruptly, Sherlock turned to look at the settee. "She wasn't struck — she was tripped, guided forcefully down. Her head hit the back..." He unzipped his coveralls enough to get out his magnifier.

"Then why move her here?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock began examining the back of the settee, focussing on the seams. "The light, John."

John looked up at the recessed light that he only then realised was directly overhead. At night, the apartment would be well-lit, but the positioning of the body beneath one light was definitely deliberate. Theatrical.

Feeling a bit ill, John rose and went to stand with Lestrade, back turned so he didn't have to look at the beautiful, dead woman. "She died in the night. Sherlock was home the whole time."

Lestrade turned to face him. "Didn't ask," he pointed out.

They both knew Lestrade would have asked, eventually. "He knew that poor woman," John answered.

"So did the rest of my family," Sherlock snapped. "If you want to make accusations, look to Mycroft. He's the one who can't keep his weight steady for a month, much less six. Now stop wasting my time, both of you, and come here."

With matching sighs, John and Lestrade walked to the settee, where Sherlock brusquely pointed out the fine, glossy black hairs caught on the seam. He rose, towering over them for a moment before they also stood. "Lestrade, text me the details of the murder weapon. John." Sherlock beckoned and quit the scene without another word.

* * *

They walked two blocks in the rain before finding a taxi willing to stop. John was too busy shivering and missing the stifling desert heat to hear the destination Sherlock spoke through the driver's window. When they slid into the backseat, John shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to resist the urge to push Sherlock's wet hair out of his eyes. He looked like a drowned kitten, an illusion made even more heartbreaking by the false mask of determination he wore.

"You said the dead woman was from Eglantine House. Which one is that?" John asked, hoping to distract Sherlock from whatever dark thoughts were running through his brilliant mind.

"They're artists. Theatre, writing, poetry, song, dance, gymnastics." Sherlock glanced at him. "Costume and clothing design."

"And she's the one responsible for..." John gestured at Sherlock's clothes.

"Not entirely. She advised on colour and fit, but only designed formalwear. Mycroft used her services far more than I ever did." The words came out brusque and blunt, but John could hear the tension in Sherlock's voice.

"Right. You fooled Lestrade, I'm certain, but I know you, Sherlock," John said, looking out the window instead. London was grey and bleak and it should have all felt normal, except for Sherlock's behavior.

"And how did I 'fool Lestrade'?" Sherlock asked acidly.

"By keeping this all to business." John looked across the seat and it was Sherlock's turn to look away. "You didn't just know that woman. You were friends. You _care_."

Sherlock huffed and busied himself by searching his pockets. He took out his gloves and shoved them at John. "Put those on."

John was momentarily startled into silence. Sherlock's leather gloves cost more than John made at the surgery in a day, possibly two. Besides, they'd never come close to fitting him. "Don't be ridiculous," he finally said, keeping his hands hidden in his own jacket. His fingers would eventually warm up.

With an irritated huff, Sherlock pulled off his scarf and closed the distance between them. John opened his mouth to ask what he was doing, and then snapped it shut as Sherlock wrapped the doubled scarf around John's neck, tugged the ends through, and tucked the cashmere against the low collar of his jacket. The fabric was still warm from Sherlock's body.

"You're cold," Sherlock snapped to forestall anything John might say. He turned deliberately back toward the window. "You were distracting me."

If the mythical Elua himself had got into the cab at the next corner and struck up a conversation, John wouldn't have been more shocked.

* * *

When the cab pulled into a half-circle drive sheltered by a carved stone awning, John thought they'd arrived at a small hotel, though not one that was familiar. High, sculpted hedges hid the street from sight, turning the grounds into a secluded park.

A black-uniformed servant rushed to open the door. Leaving Sherlock to pay the driver, John got out of the taxi and surreptitiously looked for a name badge, but there was no indication of where they were. A private club, John guessed, though it didn't look anything like the Diogenes.

Sherlock finally joined him, taking his elbow to lead him toward the pair of huge oak doors, carved with a floral design John didn't recognise — not that he was looking. Instead, he stared at Sherlock's hand, fingers starkly pale against the black shooting jacket. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Puzzled, Sherlock answered, "I'm fine."

He only released John's arm when the oak doors swung soundlessly open. Beyond, the dark lobby was tiny, barely the size of the sitting room at their flat. The carpet was deep red, the walls papered in an intricate red and black pattern. The room was entirely empty of anything resembling furniture. Instead of a reception desk, there were six doors — two on each interior wall.

"Where exactly are we?" John asked very softly, trying to quash the urge to drag Sherlock back out. Behind them, the oak doors had closed, and he had no idea if they'd open again.

"We need information," Sherlock said as the nearest door to their left opened.

John stepped forward, putting himself between Sherlock and the man who stepped into view. Instinctively, John assessed him for any threats, but there was nothing immediately apparent to explain the subtle sense of menace about him. He was in his late forties or early fifties, dark brown hair silvering at the temples, neatly trimmed beard and moustache, black suit, white shirt, black tie.

Silently, John swore that if this was some sort of criminal headquarters, he'd kill Sherlock. Or at least shoot him somewhere painful.

The man looked each of them over in turn, taking his time in a way that made John bristle. Right as John reached the edge of his temper, the man spoke, and John realised that the day really _could_ get stranger.

"Welcome, gentlemen, to Mandrake House."


	2. Chapter 2

Five years after the end of the French Revolution, King William IV had granted land to the Embassy of Terre d'Ange, and the first Temple of Elua was built on English soil. By the end of William's reign, the Houses of the Night Court had an established presence at the embassy. Queen Victoria attempted to have the Night Court in London declared an illegal business operating on government property, but proponents argued successfully that the Night Court was an expression of Terre d'Ange's national religion.

It wasn't until the two Great Wars, however, that the Night Court was able to spread beyond the embassy grounds. With the massive influx of D'Angeline refugees fleeing the German army and its allies, the Night Court went from being a thing of scandal and whispers to something more commonplace. Temples of Elua appeared throughout the United Kingdom, and the Night Court branched out, opening houses that offered everything from financial planning to the fine arts.

And, of course, sex.

Legend said that the angel Naamah bargained with an ancient king in order to free Elua, the god of Terre d'Ange, from prison. Each House of the Night Court drew inspiration from its interpretation of that night. John knew only a few of the stories — Eglantine House, he recalled, believed Naamah bought Elua's freedom for the price of a song. One of the other Houses (he couldn't recall which) claimed she wagered Elua's freedom on a roll of dice.

But every schoolboy knew the scandalous whispers of what went on in Mandrake and Valerian Houses. One was rarely mentioned without the other, for Mandrake was the realm of dominants and sadists, experts in giving their patrons pleasure through pain, and Valerian was the opposite, with adepts who would submit to any torment their patrons wished to inflict.

John had never even imagined entering either House, or any of them, in fact; not on his salary. And yet Sherlock — married to his work, dating not his area, never expressed the least bit of interest in sex — seemed entirely at home in the dark halls of Mandrake House.

John resisted the urge to strangle his flatmate and followed silently as their host, Marcel nó Mandrake-Travere, led them back through the door, down a corridor, and into a sitting room. Like all D'Angelines, he was beautiful in a way that made John feel clumsy and self-conscious, so John sat in a plush armchair and tried to make himself invisible while Travere briefly kissed Sherlock in the traditional D'Angeline greeting. He made no such effort with John, thankfully; in fact, he seemed content to ignore John altogether.

"What brings you to Mandrake House, Mr. Holmes?" Travere asked. His voice was perfect, his English flavored with just the slightest D'Angeline accent.

"I need to speak with one of your adepts," Sherlock answered evenly. "Immediately."

Travere's brows rose fractionally. "Our adepts see patrons by appointment only."

"I'm not a patron." Sherlock's smile didn't reach his eyes. "It's about a murder."

By now, John's response to Sherlock being a prat was Pavlovian. "We would very much appreciate your assistance, Mr. Travere," he said smoothly. "It shouldn't take long."

Both Sherlock and Travere gave John matching unreadable looks, making him wonder if _he'd_ been the one to somehow cause offence. That would be a switch.

Travere slowly turned back to Sherlock, his eyes narrowed. "Which adept?"

"Irene nó Mandrake-Adler."

* * *

Adept Irene nó Mandrake-Adler was tall and regal, with dark hair and cold grey eyes. She wore black interrupted by the blood red varnish on her nails and the soles of her spike-heeled shoes. Her lipstick matched, making her look particularly vampiric, an illusion enhanced by the dark room with its patterned black wallpaper, black leather furniture, and black and red carpeting.

John was heartily sick of the theme.

"Sherlock, so good to see you again," Irene said, heels stabbing viciously into the carpet as she stalked toward Sherlock, pressing sensuously against him as she kissed his lips in a way John had never thought to see, though when it ended, Sherlock didn't look at all fazed. Irene pouted up at him, saying, "You never visit."

Rather than answering — or explaining the meaning behind that 'again' that stuck in John's mind — Sherlock touched John's arm. "My companion, Dr. John Watson."

John blinked once. He couldn't say which had thrown him more: Sherlock's repeated touching or the upgrade from colleague to friend to companion. He wasn't about to examine the context — not here, at any rate — so he put out his hand, making it clear that Irene was most definitely not welcome to kiss him. "Hello."

She smirked and set her hand in his as though expecting him to kiss her fingers. "_Enchanté,_ doctor."

He released her hand and stuck firmly to Sherlock's side. "Thanks for seeing us. This won't take long," he said, hoping Sherlock took the hint.

Her smirk grew. "Please, sit," she invited, turning to stalk across the room like a predator. Though the front of her dress was modestly high, the back was entirely open from the cleft of her buttocks all the way to her shoulders, giving them both an unobstructed view of the marque tattooed across her back. The design was a stark black and red geometric pattern that reminded John of razor wire, barbed tips covered with drops of blood. She took her time before she turned, claiming an armchair like a queen taking her throne. When she crossed her legs, the hem of her dress rode up perilously high.

Under any other circumstance, John wouldn't have been able to keep from looking. Now, with his instincts on high alert, he disregarded it as a distraction.

"Zoe nó Eglantine-Moreau was murdered last night," Sherlock said bluntly.

Irene drew in a sharp breath. "Blessed Elua keep her," she said, and John realised that was what Sherlock had said, in D'Angeline, back at the scene of crime.

"She was stabbed repeatedly in the back," Sherlock continued, glancing at John.

With anyone else, John might have hesitated to give the gory details, but he really didn't care if he offended her. "I counted fifty-six distinct wounds, up to twenty more," he answered. "None were deep enough to be individually fatal."

Her eyes went wide in a way that John thought was just shock at the graphic description. Sherlock, though, apparently saw more behind it. He leaned forward, fingertips pressed together, and asked, "What do you know about it, Irene?"

Her lips tightened. She glanced away with a casual air that didn't fool John, much less Sherlock.

"Well, Sherlock," John said after a minute or so of silence. "Should we call Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, and though his expression was carefully controlled, John could almost see him wondering why he was taking over Sherlock's usual role of blunt-spoken bastard. Then Sherlock smiled at Irene and said, "Or you could come with us to New Scotland Yard, if that's more convenient."

Irene glared at him, her grey eyes hard like glass. "It didn't happen _here,_" she finally said, "but there are whispers of similar incidents."

"Incidents? You mean deaths?" John demanded sharply.

"Yes," she said distastefully.

Sherlock tensed angrily. "Other Houses," he said. "The deaths weren't reported to the police, because the Houses are D'Angeline soil."

"We have internal security," she said neutrally.

"Typical D'Angeline 'not my problem', is that what this is?" John snapped angrily. "A woman is dead. This isn't the time to sweep the dirt under the rug."

Irene flinched as though stung. "Bryony House and Valerian," she finally said, looking back at Sherlock. "The first was deemed a robbery. The second, a clandestine arrangement gone wrong."

Sherlock rose, his eyes chilly. "Do you have anything else of use to tell us?"

"The Dowaynes have suggested we remain silent on the matter," Irene said quietly. "No one will speak with you. It's only because of our friendship that Adept Marcel let you in at all."

"Would you prefer it had been the police, then?" John asked, his voice harsher than normal.

"Until today, it's been a matter for D'Angeline security. You've made your loyalties clear, Sherlock. What did you expect? An open invitation?"

"Clearly not." Sherlock's lips didn't move enough to smirk, but John saw it anyway, lurking in his eyes and the set of his jaw. "Shall we?" he asked, looking to John as he gestured to the door.

John nodded to Irene, who remained seated, barely acknowledging him with a flick of her eyes. He led the way out, remembering the path back to Travere's parlour, and said nothing until they'd gone through and out into the lobby. A servant was already there, this one a young woman in the same unadorned black as the man outside. She pressed a button on the wall, and the oak outer doors swung open. Outside, there was a taxi, passenger door open, engine running.

"The Westminster Temple of Elua," Sherlock told the driver.

* * *

The Temple of Elua looked as though it had been transplanted from Greece, something that had always struck John as odd. While most of the world had a fascination for Terre d'Ange, the D'Angelines themselves seemed obsessed with ancient Greece. The building was white stone with columns and carvings of strange little flowers with three petals. The tops of tall evergreen trees were visible within the walls, peeking up over the roof from the open inner courtyard.

Even in the rain, the building attracted tourists fumbling to manage their umbrellas and cameras and shopping bags. Some of them were part of tour groups out for a quick dose of London's culture — Westminster Cathedral, the Temple of Elua, Buckingham Palace, and then back to the hotel in time for drinks and dinner.

Sherlock had silenced John's attempts to speak in the taxi, either out of fear the Mandrakes had bugged the cab or sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. When the cab finally let them off on a corner near the temple, John caught hold of Sherlock's arm, figuring that if Sherlock could spend the morning pawing at him, he'd earned the same right.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Sherlock shoved his hand into his wet hair, pushing it out of his eyes, and gave John an exasperated look. "Can we get out of the weather?"

John stood his ground. He'd suffered far worse in his day than a little rain. "Not if you're going to go all mysterious and quiet on me again once we're inside."

Despite his irritation, Sherlock's lips twitched. "She wasn't expecting for you to stand up to her like that," he said, and actually put his arm through John's. The physical contact confused John enough that he started moving automatically beside Sherlock. "She's used to getting her way."

"Given her House, I gathered that," John said dryly, his arm tensing as if to trap Sherlock's hand. It was protective and irrational and he couldn't stop himself. Something inside him burned hot and angry at the thought of Sherlock going to Mandrake House for a purpose other than visiting an informant. He wrote it off to overprotectiveness and not jealousy.

"It was perfect," Sherlock approved. "Absolutely brilliant."

Surprised, John looked up at Sherlock, knowing he was grinning like an idiot, entirely unable to stop himself. "Really?"

Sherlock grinned back. "Well, it would have been _more_ brilliant if you'd done it on purpose. I never expect genius from you, John, but you always find a way to surprise me nonetheless."

The last of John's anger melted away under the warm, unexpected glow of Sherlock's approval. It wouldn't last — he knew it wouldn't — so he let himself enjoy it.

The temple foyer was a wide room with a glass back wall. An open archway led out to the courtyard where trees, flowers, and weeds grew freely. In the centre of the growth, John glimpsed Elua's statue, standing ten or twelve feet tall.

Velvet ropes channeled the tourists left to the museum and right to the cultural conservatory. Sherlock led John ahead and into another roped aisle that let out at several benches and small lockers, most with keys sticking out. "Take off your shoes and socks," he said, sitting down to do just that.

"We're going into the sanctuary?" John asked, surprised.

Sherlock blinked up at him, frowning as though worried. "Does that offend you? I didn't think you were religious —"

"No, I'm — It's... fine," John said, shaking his head. He didn't have any particular religious beliefs, beyond a vague hope that there was some god watching over him, but he'd always suspected Sherlock to be an atheist.

Their shoes and socks fit into one locker. John found enough pocket change to engage the lock. He pocketed the key and followed Sherlock across the cold floor, feeling slightly ridiculous. Quietly he asked Sherlock, "What do they do in the temples farther north?"

"Freeze, I suspect," Sherlock said wryly, turning just in time to smile at the blue-robed priest who approached them.

"In blessed Elua's name, be welcome," he said, holding out his hands.

Unhesitating, Sherlock took his hands and kissed him in D'Angeline fashion. John couldn't help but stare, wondering if _anything_ was going to make sense today. Then the priest turned to him, taking his hands and stepping close, and he kissed John just as he'd kissed Sherlock, lips soft and undemanding, parted just enough for John to feel a wisp of his breath.

"We'd like to make our offerings, and then to see one of your priestesses," Sherlock told him when the kiss ended.

"Of course," the priest said warily, his head tipped to the side in unspoken question.

"Nicolette nó Dahlia-Vernet Holmes."

John's head snapped around. "Holmes?"

"My _grand-mère,_" Sherlock explained, as if the revelation that his grandmother was a D'Angeline adept of Dahlia House was no surprise.

After a moment's concentration, John recalled that the adepts of Dahlia House were not just courtesans but served as diplomats and protocol advisors, studying the traditions of any nation that would welcome them. And while he could never picture Sherlock pretending at diplomacy _or_ the sex trade, John could see the D'Angeline blood in his striking appearance. It was no wonder that everyone found Sherlock so attractive — even John, gay or not, couldn't help but stare at him most days.

He followed Sherlock and the priest to a display of small scarlet flowers. Sherlock took his wallet from his jacket, folded a fifty-pound note, and dropped it into a lockbox at one corner of the display. Negligently, Sherlock indicated two of the flowers, which the priest cut from the plants using a pair of silver scissors hanging from the display by a fine chain.

After handing one flower to each of them, the priest asked, "Would you like me to accompany you, or should I see if Nicolette is available?"

"Nicolette," Sherlock said. "Tell her it's her _petit-fils_."

With another smile, the priest said, "Of course. May the blessing of Elua be upon you both."

Still in a daze, John let Sherlock lead the way out into the sanctuary. The dirt underfoot was unpleasantly cold and just muddy enough to squish between John's toes. It was no wonder that the sanctuary was nearly empty.

They followed a circuitous path around areas marked off by little flags where new shoots were coming up from the earth. "Perhaps next time, we'll come back in summer," John hinted, cupping his hands over the red flower to keep it protected from the rain.

Sherlock gave him a startled look. "You'd want to come back?"

"Would you?" John countered unthinkingly.

Sherlock blinked a few times and said nothing, turning his gaze back to the path leading to the centre of the sanctuary. They stopped at the back of a small line of dedicated worshipers and die-hard tourists. A few children ran free, splashing in the mud and blundering through the plants. The priests who wandered through the trees in their muddy blue robes made no effort to stop them.

For all that the open-air sanctuary was freezing, it was also very tranquil, which John found appealing. He'd gone to church in his youth but hadn't bothered since, except for weddings and all too many funerals, most of them in a tent with rolled-up walls to let the hot desert breeze blow through. This was just different enough that he could relax despite the rain.

Sherlock stayed close to John's side, his arm pressed to John's shoulder in a way that wasn't at all objectionable. John wanted to ask what he was thinking, but not now. The quiet was peaceful, even disrupted by the murmurs of tourists and the playful shrieks of the children, and he wanted to enjoy it.

Then they were at the front of the line. Unfamiliar with D'Angeline rituals, John hung back until Sherlock took his arm again, leading him to the statue. Elua was depicted wearing simple robes, unbound hair hanging loose over his shoulders. His hands were outstretched, his left palm marked with what looked like a wound. John had vague memories of the story of Elua shedding his own blood to prove he was the child of the Earth, but it had been years since he'd seen the BBC midwinter holiday special, _In Elua's Footsteps_.

Sherlock lowered his hand from John's arm and threw back his coat to kneel on the wet flagstone in front of the statue. After a moment's hesitation, John knelt down next to him, a little stiff from the cold. Sherlock looked at him as though surprised, but said nothing. He put his flower with the other wet blossoms and then bowed forward, bracing his hands on the dirt as he kissed the marble foot of the statue.

John stared, unable to grasp exactly what he was seeing. It occurred to him that Sherlock's display of reverence was sincere and respectful, if not actually devout. Surprised, he looked up at the face of the statue, where the features were carved just enough to suggest a smiling, benevolent expression without hinting at race or appearance. Whether or not Elua was actually descended from God, Sherlock's behaviour was a minor miracle in itself. John set his flower down beside Sherlock's and bent to kiss the foot of the statue, feeling overwhelmed.

When he rose, he looked to Sherlock and saw an uncharacteristic peace in his eyes. The fire of his intellect still burned bright under the pressure of the case they were working, but it was a warming heat and not a destructive, all-consuming blaze.

Then the moment passed, and Sherlock beckoned John to follow him not to the front of the sanctuary, where they'd entered, but to the back, where a very young acolyte in his teens stood guard, wrapped in two layers of wet woolen robes. "Sorry, closed —"

"We're here for Nicolette nó Dahlia," Sherlock interrupted less brusquely than he might have done elsewhere.

"Oh. Um, of course," the boy said uncertainly, his resolve crumbling in the face of Sherlock's absolute assurance that he had every right to pass.

Sherlock opened the door himself and led John into a utilitarian area with a white-tiled floor and handrails leading down to a shallow pool of fast-flowing water. A rack nearby held small white towels. Sherlock took two, handed one to John, and stepped into the pool, ignoring the signs that warned the floor would be slippery and advised the use of the handrails.

John followed with a sigh of relief as the pleasantly warm water flowed over his feet. "Come here often, then?" he asked unthinkingly.

Sherlock turned and arched a brow at him. "That's a terrible pickup line, even from you."

After one shocked moment, John broke into laughter. Sherlock grinned, splashing his feet in the water to rid himself of the last bits of mud, and then stepped out to the other side to dry his feet. John followed, saying, "I'd say we should come back here every week, but you might actually start being nice to Donovan."

"Wouldn't want to risk that," Sherlock said, eyes bright with silent amusement.

"Sherlock?" a woman called just as John threw his towel into a rolling fabric laundry cart. A pair of doors swung open and an older woman entered, wearing a short red surplice over a longer black skirt, rather than the blue robes worn by the other priests. She was tall and stately, and though she had to be well into her eighties, she was one of the most beautiful women John had ever seen.

_"Grand-mère,"_ Sherlock said almost shyly, kissing both her cheeks and clasping her hands before kissing her fingers. "You're still beautiful."

"Because you have an eye for female beauty?" she teased, her voice rich and musical. She turned her smile on John and he felt a blush rise for no good reason. "Is this your young man?"

At one point, John had considered getting business cards printed with _'We're just friends'_ on one side and _'I'm not gay' _on the other. Now, though, he just blushed even more and tried to stammer something that Sherlock interrupted by saying, "Dr. John Watson, my companion."

She sniffed delicately and reached out her hands towards John. "Don't try and tell me he's sworn to Cassiel."

"Oh, god, no," John denied at once, wondering if _that_ was what Sherlock had been implying with his introductions. Yes, the men and women sworn to Cassiel's service were soldiers and bodyguards, but they were also celibate priests. He took her hands and said, "I was in the army. It's all I can do now to keep Sherlock from killing himself."

"Oh, dear. His science experiments?" she asked sympathetically.

Feeling like he'd suddenly found himself an ally, he nodded and smiled, but before he could elaborate, she kissed him into silence. Her hands tightened and her lips parted just enough to hint at more, and there was _no way possible_ that he should have responded, but something about her kiss stripped away his defences and left him breathless.

When she stepped back, she released his hands with what he imagined was reluctance. "Aren't you the lucky one?" she teased Sherlock, her silver-blue eyes bright and knowing.

Sherlock's pale skin darkened and he looked away, mumbling, "_Grand-mère,_ please," in protest.

She laughed brightly and insinuated herself between them, taking their arms. "It's been too long. Your brother visits once or twice a month, you know."

"From now on, so will Sherlock," John promised, and was rewarded with Nicolette's radiant smile.

* * *

Nicolette brought John and Sherlock to a very comfortable English parlour done in floral pastels that John found soothing after the ominous decor at Mandrake House. When she discovered they hadn't eaten, she asked a blue-robed young man to bring them a simple lunch of sausage rolls, cheese, and tea. A few minutes later, he wheeled in a cart, arranged the food on a table, and quietly left.

"Now, you don't visit without a reason, Sherlock," she said as she poured their tea. "Out with it."

But instead of answering, Sherlock looked to John, as if silently asking him to tactfully explain. So John washed down his food with a mouthful of tea and took a moment to gather his thoughts. "This morning, a young woman, an adept of..."

"Eglantine House," Sherlock supplied.

John nodded. "— Eglantine House was found dead. She'd been murdered." Nicolette closed her eyes for a moment, murmuring under her breath in D'Angeline.

"_Grand-mère,_ she isn't the first," Sherlock said quietly. "Two other adepts have also been killed, from Bryony and Valerian House."

Nicolette turned to look toward the window, frowning thoughtfully. "I've heard nothing of this, but I spend most of my days counseling would-be servants of Naamah. You're investigating this, I take it?"

"We're working with the police, yes," John said, thinking it important to emphasise that theirs was a legitimate investigation and not some mad idea of Sherlock's.

She smiled briefly at John as if to say she understood the distinction. "Many of my students remain in the city, two with their own salons. I'll make inquiries for you."

"Thank you, _Grand-mère,_" Sherlock said sincerely.

"Now then," she continued, a measure of warm humour returning to her expression, "how long have you two been —"

_"Grand-mère,"_ Sherlock protested.

"Don't interrupt," she commanded sternly. Sherlock looked sullenly away, his shoulders hunched as if he were bracing for an attack. After a confused moment, Nicolette turned to John and asked, kindly, "How long have you two been together?"

John wasn't about to get into the 'I'm not gay' conversation with Sherlock's grandmother. He surrendered, simply answering, "About a year and a half —"

"Twenty months," Sherlock corrected.

Nicolette's smile brightened a notch. "That's far too long to wait. You mustn't be a stranger, John — May I call you John?"

"Please do," he agreed.

"Then you may call me Nicolette — or _Grand-mère,_ if you prefer," she invited.

Charmed, John laughed and shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of mangling the D'Angeline language, Nicolette. I could listen to it for hours, but I'd never do the accent justice as you do. Besides, you're far too pretty to be my grandmother."

"Sherlock, he's lovely," Nicolette approved, reaching across the table to lay her hand on John's arm. "Oh! That reminds me. I always thought it would be Mycroft first, but leave it to you to surprise me," she said brightly, rising quickly to her feet.

John hadn't grown up among the posh set, but he knew it was polite to rise, leaving Sherlock to scramble to his feet a moment later. Nicolette waved them back down and excused herself, going through a door at the back of the room. Beyond, John thought he saw a bedroom.

"She's wonderful," he told Sherlock as they sat back down. "Really, Sherlock, you let Mycroft kidnap me the day after we meet, and it takes you _twenty months_ to introduce me to your grandmother?"

"I didn't _let_ him do anything," Sherlock protested, darting uncertain looks at John as he fussed with his tea, dumping in enough sugar that he'd be buzzing for hours. "You're not..."

John waited, but all Sherlock did was gesture with his teaspoon before he furiously stirred his tea. "Not what?" he finally asked.

"Upset?"

"By — Oh." John blushed at the thought of what the charming, elderly priestess probably assumed he was doing with her grandson, but he shook his head. "It... seemed to make her happy. But what about you?"

Sherlock blinked at him, caught wrong-footed. "What about what?" he asked quickly. "Me?"

"I know you're..." It was John's turn to gesture with his teacup before he took a sip, trying to organise his scattered thoughts. "How'd you put it? Married to your work?"

"Yes, well," Sherlock mumbled into his own cup. He took a deep drink before wincing at the heat. "It wasn't as if I _knew_ you."

John stared at him, baffled by the answer. "Then, what? Did you —"

"John," Nicolette called as she interrupted them with her return. She was carrying a large book covered in deep red leather. Sherlock choked on his tea.

Abandoning his tea and half-eaten lunch, John rose and accepted the book she offered to him. In ornate script was written _Trois Milles Joies_. Beneath, in smaller print, was the translation: Three Thousand Joys.

"My husband, blessed Elua keep him, bought this translation as a gift on our wedding night," Nicolette told John. We gave it to our son when he married Violet, Sherlock's mother. When he died, Violet gave it back to me for safekeeping, until one of my grandchildren found his true love. I want you to have it."

John hesitated, turning back to Sherlock, who had a pleading expression on his face. Thinking Sherlock wanted him to end the misconception, he said, "Nicolette, I think... maybe you misunderstood exactly what — Our relationship, that is."

"Do you love him?" she asked, putting her hand over John's to keep him from offering the book back to her.

He opened his mouth, blushing all over again. "He's... Well, he's my best friend —"

_"Pour l'amour de Elua,"_ she said with an exasperated sigh. "You English are so reserved. John, I see Elua's blessing in you both, the way you look at one another and how you move together. There is a place for _mon petit-fils_ in your life and in your heart."

"I... well, yes," he agreed softly. He'd never thought of it that way but it seemed true, though a bit more poetic than he would have phrased it.

She patted his hand and stepped away, leaving him holding the book. "Let Elua guide you, then, and love as you choose," she advised gently. "Naamah's love will follow where Elua's path leads."


	3. Chapter 3

"Serial killer, then," John said as he made more tea, back at their flat. The rain outside had settled into his bones, chilling him.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, glancing at the red-bound book that John had set carefully onto the coffee table. "Religion and sex. The two most common motives."

"What about money?"

"Bryony House, but I don't think that's a motive in this case."

"Sorry?" John asked, glancing over at the sofa where Sherlock was sprawled. His suit jacket was draped over his armchair and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He'd started with one nicotine patch, but John knew that if he didn't keep a close watch, that was likely to change. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock was staring at him rather than at the ceiling.

"Bryony House. Their adepts are gamblers and gamers, but also financial advisors — investment, banking, accounting, all that. Geniuses at mathematics."

"And the other victim — Valerian House," John said awkwardly.

"Masochists and submissives. Also domestic servants and personal assistants." Sherlock let out a snort. "Mycroft hires them exclusively."

John froze in the act of setting tea bags into mugs. "Sherlock, I _never_ needed to know that about your brother."

"It's nothing to do with sex. It's practical. In Terre d'Ange, adepts of Valerian House who've made their marques can gain the highest security clearances. Did you learn nothing of Terre d'Ange in school?" Sherlock asked, propping up on his elbows to more effectively glare at John.

"If I did, I deleted it," John teased. "I invaded Afghanistan, remember? I was more concerned with learning Pashto and Dari."

"Neither of which you know fluently."

"I can order someone to disarm and swear at them when they don't. That's all I needed."

Sherlock sighed dramatically and flopped back onto the sofa, though he kept staring. "And that's terribly useful in London. You do realise that London has the largest population of expatriate D'Angelines in the world, don't you?"

John knew better than to answer that. Instead, he asked, "Do the marques identify an adept's House?" The tea kettle started to whistle; he turned and poured hot water over the teabags.

"They're individually designed." Sherlock frowned at him. "Don't you know —"

"Your grandmother likes me. Be nice," John warned.

Sherlock sighed deeply and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Each marque is individually tailored to the adept. They incorporate basic design elements for each House, but really, John. Could you see D'Angelines all having the _same tattoos?_"

John grinned. "Fair enough," he conceded. "Anything else I should know?"

Sherlock smirked at him. "We don't have time to cover all that. I'll try and keep you from making any grievous mistakes."

"Thanks _so_ much."

When the tea was steeped, John binned the bags. He poured milk into his mug and added sugar to Sherlock's, keeping it to one teaspoon. He'd already had more than enough sugar at the temple.

Sherlock was still watching him. As soon as John picked up the mugs, Sherlock folded his legs up to make room, silently inviting John to sit on the sofa — another unusual change, given that Sherlock tended to occupy the whole sofa, catlike, even when he was curled up in one of his stroppy moods.

John accepted, setting down their mugs on the coffee table as he took his seat. As soon as he was settled, Sherlock slid his feet over John's lap, trapping him. Only then did Sherlock lay back and look up at the ceiling, as if the physical contact reassured him that John wasn't going anywhere.

John glanced over and rested one hand on Sherlock's ankle. "Are you going to tell me what's been bothering you?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock looked down at him without moving his head, his eyes slitted. "Nothing."

"At least _try_ to lie convincingly."

Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled as though trying to be patient. "D'Angelines are superstitious. It's nonsense."

"Something your grandmother said," John guessed. "Something about us."

Sherlock's answering grunt was noncommittal.

"But no... you've been like this all day — since before we went to the Temple of Elua."

That didn't even earn him a grunt, but John felt Sherlock go tense.

"You've practically attached yourself to me," John pointed out. "You hate being touched."

"It's cold out."

"You had a nightmare this morning."

"I don't have nightmares," Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock —"

"Religion and sex," Sherlock insisted, getting the discussion back to business. He reached for the box of nicotine patches.

John set his mug down so quickly that tea splashed on the coffee table. He twisted to snatch the box away from Sherlock, only to have Sherlock pull it out of his reach, staring at him in surprise. "John —"

"You have one already," John said firmly, glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock refused to meet John's eyes. He took out another patch before dropping the box back down on the floor beside him. "It's more than a one-patch problem."

"Don't put that on, Sherlock," John warned.

"People could die. We have no timeframe — no idea when the killer will strike next."

For a moment, John debated wrestling the patch free. He was certain that he could take Sherlock in a fight, but he didn't want to turn this any more juvenile than it already was. Instead, he shoved at Sherlock's legs and started to get up, saying, "Then you don't need me here."

Sherlock froze in the act of tearing open the patch. His gaze snapped around, locking to John's. Something like _fear_ showed in his eyes for a moment.

Immediately, John's irritation evaporated into worry. He settled back down and didn't miss the way Sherlock went limp with relief.

"Hey," John said softly, "it's all right. I'm not going anywhere." He reached out his hand for the patch.

Sherlock handed it over without protest. He rolled over on his side, pressing his back to the sofa cushions, and wrapped his arms around himself. "You were," he mumbled.

John dropped the patch onto his side of the coffee table. He put his hand back on Sherlock's leg and tried not to think about what Nicolette had said about their relationship. "I was what?"

"Gone," Sherlock snapped. He burrowed deeper into the cushions, scooting down closer to John, and tugged the folded blanket down off the arm of the sofa to act as a makeshift pillow.

"When? You haven't gone more than ten feet away from me all day, except for your shower."

"The nightmare." Sherlock lifted his head just enough to glare briefly at John. "It was a nightmare, all right?" He let his head drop back down onto the blanket and closed his eyes. "You were _gone_."

"Sherlock, I'm not..." John began, but trailed off before he could speak the obvious lie. Because he _would_ be gone, one day — most likely dead on one of their mad cases, hopefully before Sherlock could end up the same way, preferably with Sherlock _not_ ending up the same way, because John wouldn't hesitate to take a bullet or knife or Sherlock. But then he thought about Nicolette and what she'd said about Elua and Naamah, and though he didn't know the specifics, he could see _gone_ in a whole new light.

_Gone_ could well mean the future John had always pictured for himself, just like his mum and dad: married, a flat in London, a private practice, a house in a small town, two kids, a dog. Dull days of mowing the lawn and bitching about hosepipe bans and picking out a reliable family car. A trigger lock on his gun — no, he'd have to pitch the gun into the Thames, because he couldn't risk a child getting hold of it, trigger lock or not. He'd put on weight and pretend to jog to get rid of it, but he'd be lucky if he could play golf once a month for exercise, and he'd be dead of a heart attack —

"You _hate_ golf," Sherlock said, baffled.

Startled, John looked at him. "Did I — Did I say that _aloud?_"

Sherlock's confusion melted into much more characteristic disdain. "Enough of it. It sounds revolting."

John's hand tightened on Sherlock's calf. He'd always seen marriage and suburbs and kids in his future because... because he'd never thought of anything else, except when he thought about dying to a bullet or a bomb in Afghanistan instead of a heart attack brought on by a rich diet and no exercise. He'd been shot, and he'd take that any day over wasting away into a bland shadow of himself. And as always, Sherlock had it right. It did sound revolting.

God help him, it really did.

* * *

John had just set down his teacup and reached for Nicolette's book when his mobile rang. Sherlock didn't stop pacing except to glare fiercely at his own silent mobile. The caller ID was an unfamiliar number, so John answered, relieved it wasn't his sister. "Hello?"

_"Allo, mon cher."_

Surprised, John sat up, beckoning to Sherlock. "Nicolette?"

"_Oui._ I have news for you."

"How'd you get —" He cut himself off, somehow not surprised that Sherlock's grandmother knew his number. Sherlock sat down right against John and tried to take the mobile away. "Is Sherlock's mobile not working?"

"I'm certain it's fine. I wanted to hear your lovely voice, John. Tell Sherlock to fetch a pen."

Glaring, Sherlock did just that. John hid a grin and told Nicolette, "We really do appreciate this."

"Then I expect to see you next weekend, so long as you aren't chasing _mon petit-fils_ all about London."

"We'll have to make it the weekend after, in that case. Or you're welcome to come here, to Baker Street."

"You _are_ a sweet boy, aren't you? Is he ready?"

"Ready and trying to kill me with his death-stare. Go ahead."

Laughing, Nicolette gave John three names and telephone numbers, which he dutifully repeated to Sherlock. After promising to call her in the next few days to make arrangements, John rang off and looked up at Sherlock. "Helpful?"

Sherlock tossed the pen in a spinning arc, snatching it back out of the air, his gaze fixed on his notebook the whole time. "Vespasien nó Valerian-Reyer is the Dowayne of Valerian House, London," he said thoughtfully.

"One of the victims was from Valerian House," John recalled, shifting to get his own more modest notepad out of his back pocket.

"Yes, but the death wasn't reported to the Met, which means it happened on D'Angeline soil — at the Embassy or one of the Houses." Sherlock shook his head and idly tossed his pen again. "In which case it most likely would have been at Valerian or Mandrake House. We were at Mandrake today, and Irene knew nothing about the death."

"She could have been lying."

Sherlock shook his head. "She wouldn't lie to me."

John frowned at the way Sherlock had phrased that: _wouldn't,_ not _couldn't_. "Why not?" he asked, proud that he didn't sound jealous, at least not to his own ears.

"She's an American, John. I'm the one who arranged her interview with the Dowayne of Mandrake House years ago."

This time, John didn't trust himself to say anything without his jealousy being obvious. Irene and Sherlock looked to be about the same age. If apprentices started training between sixteen and eighteen, Sherlock must have known Irene for more than half his life. John had only known Sherlock for less than two years — _twenty months, _he mentally corrected — and he'd never imagined Sherlock had a connection to the D'Angelines. How much more did he _not know_ about his best friend?

"Vespasien won't have anything for us," Sherlock said as he resumed his pacing. "Raymonde Chastain is the head of the D'Angeline ambassador's privy council. He was most likely involved in the decision not to involve the Met."

"Why didn't they?" John asked curiously. "In the army, we had all sorts of reporting regulations at international bases."

Sherlock didn't quite sneer, but John saw the beginnings of one in the way his lips twitched. "The acknowledged reason? Murders are bad for business."

"The acknowledged reason... There's another reason, I take it?"

The sneer made a momentary appearance. "D'Angelines hide from ugliness. Even after 1958, when the Houses restructured to offer services other than sex and companionship, they required a certain level of beauty in all —"

Sherlock froze, his pale eyes lighting up. "Oh," he breathed, turning to stare at John.

John sat forward, his pulse speeding up with anticipation. "You have something."

"Yes." Sherlock grinned like a shark and turned his notebook towards John, pointing at the third name. "Bernadette Desrosiers of the Cassiline Order."

"That's their equivalent of MI5, isn't it?"

"Yes. She knows our killer, John. Now, we just have to make her talk."

* * *

To John's surprise, the offices of the Cassiline Order were hidden away in the basement of the Embassy of Terre d'Ange like a badly kept secret, though members of the order were everywhere. In contrast to the generally extravagant dress style most D'Angelines favored, the Cassilines' uniforms were tailored grey wool, unadorned save for the breast patch embroidered with a blood red three-petaled flower over crossed blades. Their uniform sleeves were wide and hung just past their elbows, showing the black polycarbonate armoured vambraces they wore over their forearms. The paired daggers worn at their hips were symbolic; those on active duty carried sidearms or automatic weapons.

"Sherlock Holmes and Captain John Watson to see Bernadette Desrosiers," Sherlock told the desk officer at the foot of the basement stairs.

Accustomed to Sherlock's willingness to use anything at his disposal to get his way — including John's military service — John just nodded when the officer looked at him. "Afternoon," he said mildly, wondering what rank the man held. Their uniforms were all identical, with no insignia for rank, division, or specialization that John could discern.

After a quick call with hushed words spoken in D'Angeline, the officer rose and beckoned for them to follow. He led them through a bullpen of cubicles that looked very much like New Scotland Yard to a windowed door covered with mini-blinds. "The office of Lieutenant Desrosiers," he said, knocking once before he opened the door for them.

Bernadette Desrosiers stood two inches taller than John and outweighed him by at least a stone. In addition to the knives all Cassilines carried, she wore a double holster with matching black pistols, one under each arm. She was surprisingly young, no more than twenty-five, though she had the look of someone who'd seen combat.

She looked at them each in turn before she gave John a crisp nod. "Captain, Mr. Holmes. Please sit," she invited, gesturing to the chairs opposite her utilitarian grey desk as she took her seat.

"Thank you for seeing us," Sherlock said with surprising courtesy.

Bernadette's smile didn't touch her eyes, though John had the feeling it rarely did. "Nicolette nó Dahlia is very respected, Mr. Holmes. She would not have given you my number if it wasn't important, I'm certain."

"Zoe nó Eglantine-Moreau was murdered last night."

So much for courtesy. Accustomed to smoothing over Sherlock's rough edges, John smoothly explained, "We're assisting the police in the investigation, Lieutenant."

Bernadette's eyes narrowed. "You understand, I must ask for verification of this," she said, her accent a bit more pronounced. She rose again and circled the desk. Behind her chair, John could see a small, sturdy metal safe against the wall. The mini-blinds rattled as she firmly closed the office door. John wondered if she was trying to keep them in or to keep eavesdroppers at bay.

Sherlock took a sharp breath. Before he could verbally lash out at Bernadette, John intervened once more. "You can contact Detective Inspector Lestrade at New Scotland Yard. Would you like his direct number?"

Normally, just the mention of DI Lestrade's name was enough to prove their credentials, but Bernadette nodded and pushed a notepad towards John. "Please."

"And while we waste time with stupid political games, perhaps another adept is being murdered," Sherlock pointed out.

"Sherlock," John murmured, writing down Lestrade's mobile number. The fact that he had it memorised said something about the state of his life, though he had no idea what.

"Nicolette nó Dahlia is respected, sir, but she is not sworn to Cassiel," Bernadette said, taking back the notepad. She picked up her desk phone and dialled.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and pulled his mobile from his pocket. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he glared down at the screen.

A moment later, John's own mobile buzzed. He glared at Sherlock and checked the incoming text:

_You're a captain. Pull rank on her. SH_

John gave Sherlock a flat look and pointedly dropped his mobile back into his coat pocket. Jaw clenched, Sherlock began to type again, but stopped when John put a hand on his sleeve in warning.

It took less than five minutes for Lieutenant Desrosiers to satisfy herself that they had legitimate cause to be in her office. Some of the chilly edge left her smile as she thanked Lestrade and hung up the phone.

Sherlock was still glaring sullenly at her, so John took it upon himself to say, "We understand this is a complicated situation. We have no interest in causing anyone trouble. We'd just like to see the murderer brought to justice."

Sherlock huffed again and sat forward, ready to resume his interrogation. The motion startled John, who'd forgotten his hand still rested on Sherlock's arm as though holding down a mute button. Hiding his smile at the image — God, that would make his life easy! — John pulled his hand back.

"What have you learned in the course of your investigation?" Bernadette asked.

"I could ask you the same," Sherlock countered. Bernadette's eyes narrowed

John interrupted them both, saying, "Or we could lay down our cards and work together, shall we?"

They both looked at him. Sherlock finally sighed and turned back to Bernadette, saying, "Zoe nó Eglantine-Moreau was murdered between midnight and three this morning. Repeated shallow stab wounds to the back, apparently meant to destroy the lines of her marque. Does that match with the other victims that your order neglected to report to the Met, Lieutenant?"

"In part," Bernadette said tightly. She turned to John, perhaps deciding his rank as a Captain held more weight than Sherlock's blood-relation to a priestess.

"How, 'in part'?" Sherlock demanded, and John touched his arm again in warning. Lieutenant Desrosiers _was_ cooperating, even if it wasn't fast enough to satisfy Sherlock's impatience.

Bernadette rolled her chair back, slid out a keyboard tray, and started typing. "Two days ago, the first victim, Danielle nó Bryony, was bludgeoned to death — massive trauma to the skull — and mutilated after. Her marque was cut repeatedly using a shard of ceramic broken from her coffee mug."

She turned her monitor so Sherlock and John could crowd in and examine images of a woman's body. She was slender and young, no more than twenty by John's guess. Her blond hair was stained dark red with blood. She'd been struck repeatedly; the blows had shattered her skull with such violence that John had to glance away. Beside her on what looked like a linoleum office floor was the bloody handle of a broken coffee cup.

Bernadette clicked her mouse, bringing up another photo, this one shot from above, showing the young woman's back. Her upper back was unharmed, a pale canvas of skin that lacked any sign of tattoos. Only her lower back had been shredded with the makeshift knife.

Sherlock lifted his hand, frowning, before he said, "Four inches, perhaps five. She'd been apprenticed for what, two years?"

"Two and a quarter," Bernadette said, reaching out.

Sherlock put out a hand to keep her from turning the monitor away again. "The flooring looks corporate, not private. She was at her office. Was there security footage?"

"No." Bernadette sounded unhappy. "Client confidentiality is guaranteed at all Houses. Surely you know that."

"You mean there are no cameras, even in public areas?" John asked.

"None."

With a characteristic sigh of exasperation, Sherlock asked, "What about _outside_ cameras? CCTV footage would have at least shown people entering and exiting the building at the appropriate time."

"And would require us to notify the British government." Bernadette kept her face and voice carefully neutral.

"Politics," Sherlock said in disgust. "And the other one? The Valerian adept?"

She turned the monitor back for a moment, typing quickly. "Rainier nó Valerian was murdered yesterday, at Kushiel's shrine in Valerian House." She pushed the monitor around once more.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as he stared at the monitor. "He wasn't unconscious," he said quietly.

"No."

John leaned over, his shoulder pressed against Sherlock's. The photograph showed a pale, slender young man, naked, slumped at the foot of a post with his hands manacled over his head. Had he been standing, his hands would have been just below chest height, John estimated. His back was a mess of torn, bloody flesh, from the tops of his thighs all the way to the back of his neck.

"I don't see any defensive wounds," he said, looking at the victim's arms. Other than blood that had splattered from the violence done to the dead man's back and the raw marks barely visible at the edges of the manacles, there was no sign of damage to his hands or arms. If he'd fought back, John imagined there would be some sign of it, though he couldn't quite tell what the instrument of death had been.

"There wouldn't have been — not at first," Sherlock said grimly before he turned back to Bernadette. "You looked into the House priests?"

"None were there." She frowned darkly. "The shrine would not have been used for an assignation with a patron of the House. To do so is heresy."

"Wait," John interrupted, looking to Sherlock for an explanation. "Fill me in here."

"Kushiel is one of the angels charged with the punishment of sinners," Sherlock answered as he went back to studying the monitor, leaning in to examine it more closely. "Believers would submit to this willingly, at least at first."

"A _believer_ wouldn't profane Kushiel's shrine to entertain a patron," Bernadette protested.

"Unless he thought his 'patron' was one of Kushiel's priests."

Bernadette sat back, her eyes going wide.

"I still don't understand," John said. "What does this" — he pointed at the monitor — "have to do with religion?"

"It's a form of penance. The priests use whips tipped with metal barbs," Sherlock said clinically. He pointed to the side of the image, where an enormous mask of dark gold metal, perhaps bronze, hung on the wall. Looking at the blank face with its dead eyes made John shiver. Below the mask was a stainless steel basin on a tripod. "This is filled with a sterilised saline solution. After the scourging, the priest pours the salt water over the open wounds."

_"What?"_ John asked, horrified, before he caught himself. "I'm sorry. That doesn't seem..." Sane? Normal? He finally said, "Safe," thinking it a somewhat neutral option.

"Captain Watson is also a doctor," Sherlock told Bernadette.

Some of the tension left her shoulders. "A priest would never cause this damage. It's ritualised. Normally, as I understand it, there is a very clear distinction between the patronage sought at Valerian and Mandrake Houses and the practices of the Kusheline priesthood."

Her careful phrasing was a minefield that promised bloody misunderstanding. John sat back, keeping his mouth shut, leaving Sherlock to handle this on his own. Sherlock had little grasp of etiquette or social conventions, but at least he knew D'Angeline ways.

"The key here is eradication of the marques. Whether they're finished or still in progress obviously doesn't matter. We may learn more tomorrow, with the next victim," Sherlock said thoughtfully, his gaze flicking idly across the metal shelves behind Bernadette. The edge of sarcasm returned to his voice when he added, "You _have_ noticed the pattern? One death each day?"

"Shit," John muttered, rubbing at his forehead. "Sherlock, we have to stop him."

"Or her," Sherlock pointed out.

"We've questioned all the adepts working at Valerian and Bryony on the days in question," Bernadette said. "We've asked them to make contact with their clients and ask them to come forward."

Sherlock made an impatient sound. "That won't work. By covering up the first two murders, you've made the killer more bold, which was why the third was killed outside D'Angeline territory. What information has your office officially shared with the Met?"

Bernadette glanced guiltily at her closed door. "None."

John leaned forward, saying, "Lieutenant, we promise, we'll keep your name out of this. But if you know _anything_ else that could help us, now isn't the time to hold back. Please."

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but he didn't look away from Bernadette. She finally dropped her gaze and pressed her lips together before she began typing once more, this time remaining silent. After a moment, a printer on the shelf at her back hummed to life. She turned and began collecting the pages as they printed out.

John counted a total of nine pages before she turned back to face them. She began sorting thee printouts out into three piles, which she reversed to show them. Each was divided into two columns — names and contact information. She touched each one in turn, saying, "Blacklisted D'Angelines, blacklisted foreigners, known agents who are hostile to the D'Angeline government."

"Blacklisted," John said, glancing at Sherlock. "From the Houses, I take it?"

"Patrons who offend the adepts, commit heresy, make a nuisance of themselves, that sort of thing," he said absently as he began sorting through the D'Angeline names. "The murderer's most likely D'Angeline."

"What? Why?" Bernadette asked.

"The second death. An outsider wouldn't know enough about Kusheline ritual to fool a Valerian or Mandrake adept. Another House, yes, but not one of those two. The Valerian went with his killer willingly, at least at first."

Bernadette muttered softly in D'Angeline, her tone harsh with anger. "The murderer must face D'Angeline justice," she said after a moment.

Sherlock shrugged, uncaring, and rose to his feet. He folded the D'Angeline list into thirds and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. Bernadette's eyes followed the motion, but she made no protest.

"Thank you for your help, Lieutenant," John said, also rising. He extended his hand to her instinctively, before he realised it might be a breach of etiquette. Not that he cared. He was tired and worried about the next murder and just a little sick of feeling culturally out of his depth.

She nodded and shook his hand briskly. "Captain. If you need anything further, don't return here. Call me directly, and I'll meet you off the embassy grounds."

Sherlock smiled almost ferally. "And that's our confirmation. Come along, John," he said, sweeping out of the office.

Bernadette went pale, but John had no chance to speak. He just nodded to her, wished her a good afternoon, and hurried after Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

John knew better than to try and get any information out of Sherlock, so he dozed in the taxi, waking only when they came to a stop. He blinked and looked around in confusion when he realised they weren't at the flat. "Where —"

"Out, John," Sherlock said, nudging John over as he got out his wallet.

Yawning, John ducked out into the rain, turning up his collar and blinking into the darkness. They were on a quiet side street of stately terraced houses with deep front yards sheltered by high hedges. After paying the driver, Sherlock got out and went to the nearest gate, swinging it open.

"If we're here to rob someone, I didn't bring a weapon," John said, trudging after him. The yard beyond the hedges was meticulously groomed. The grass looked like it belonged on a golf course and was absolutely free of fallen leaves or weeds. Small lights lining the path held back the growing evening gloom.

"Next time," Sherlock muttered, leaning on the doorbell until the door opened thirty seconds later.

Despite all previous evidence, Mycroft didn't always wear a full three-piece suit. While in the comfort of what was apparently his home, he actually removed his jacket. "Good evening, John," he said, looking past Sherlock to give John a smile that should have been fanged. Only then did he turn his smile on Sherlock. "Brother."

"Aren't you going to invite us in, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked acidly. "You do love to show off your decor, I know."

Mycroft stepped back, opening the door. "By all means. Had I known you wanted a tour, I would have invited you over earlier, John."

"I've done more than enough touring for one day, thanks," John muttered. He wasn't in the mood to be caught up in their sniping, though he was grateful to get out of the chilly rain.

"Yes, how did you enjoy Mandrake House?" he asked, firmly closing the front door. Two distinct, solid _thunks_ sounded, reminding John of solenoid-activated vault locks. No common deadbolt for Mycroft Holmes, of course.

The question caused Sherlock to bring out his death-glare again. "We're here," he said, brandishing the list of names he'd taken from Lieutenant Desrosiers, "because I need a list of the members of the privy council to the D'Angeline ambassador."

"Why on earth would you imagine I would have such a list?" Mycroft asked coolly.

"Would you rather I called Raymonde Chastain and asked him directly?" Sherlock countered.

Mycroft's smile disappeared. "Take off your coats. Would you care for tea or something stronger?"

"Tea's fine, thanks," John said, though he was sorely tempted, knowing Mycroft's liquor cabinet had to be first-rate. After a day of running around with Sherlock, though, two drinks would be enough to put John to sleep, and the case was far from solved.

Mycroft disappeared into the house. Sherlock opened the foyer closet so they could hang their coats. Then he led John into a cozy front parlour where a fire burned in the hearth. The only sign of life in the room was the newspaper and tumbler of amber liquor on a small table beside an armchair.

"Why are we harassing your brother for this?" John asked very quietly as he sat down on the settee, thinking it would be more comfortable than any of the stiff-looking armchairs.

Sherlock set the list of D'Angeline names on the coffee table. Then he sat down beside John and gave him a sly smile.

"Wonderful. You're being clever at one another." John folded his arms and slouched down, trying to get comfortable. "Wake me if you two get to the killing each other stage."

"John," Sherlock protested, though his innocent act was spoiled by the way his light blue eyes sparkled.

Resolutely, John closed his eyes. "If you do kill each other, I'm still having your grandmother over for dinner next week. She likes me."

"Of course she does."

John blinked his eyes open, glancing at Sherlock. "Thanks," he said a bit uncertainly.

A comfortable silence fell, nearly lulling John into sleep again. The fireplace was warm, and while the settee wasn't comfortable by any stretch, he could sleep anywhere, given the opportunity. No one was shooting at him, and knowing Sherlock was at his side helped him relax, perhaps because he knew Sherlock wasn't somewhere else, trying to get himself killed.

A faint sound made him open his eyes. Mycroft entered with a tea set on a tray. Matching china, naturally, the type of expensive set that John would never buy and that Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to use for his experiments. Mycroft set the tray down on the coffee table and poured, adding milk to John's tea without asking. Sherlock's tea got one spoon of sugar, though Sherlock made a point of leaning forward and adding two more. When he stirred the tea with a clink of his spoon, Mycroft's lips pressed together in silent disapproval.

John just shook his head and warmed his hands on the thin teacup, wondering how the Holmes brothers had managed to grow up without indulging in fratricide.

"Now, then," Mycroft said as he sat back with his own tea.

With his usual bluntness, Sherlock said, "Three D'Angeline adepts have been murdered over the last three days."

Mycroft's breath caught, as if he hadn't known. "I heard about Zoe Moreau," he said cautiously.

"Two days ago, a Bryony apprentice, one who'd barely started her marque. Yesterday, a Valerian."

"Money and violence," Mycroft said thoughtfully. "You believe it's not a coincidence because..."

"The circumstances were similar in all three," John put in. "The killer seemed more concerned with destroying their marques than with the actual killings, at least with the second and third victims."

"How —"

"John," Sherlock interrupted sharply, fixing him with a wide-eyed stare. "Why? Why did you say that?" he demanded. "What was different about the first murder?"

"That poor girl — the Bryony adept —"

"Danielle," Sherlock said. Leave it to him to remember her name because she'd died in an interesting manner, and never bother to learn Lestrade's first name after all those years.

John nodded. "It took more than one blow to do that kind of damage to the back of her head. She was killed, stripped, and _then_ mutilated."

Slowly, Sherlock's lips curved up in a smile full of such approval that John couldn't help but grin back in return. "John, John... _Yes!_ That's it!"

"What's —"

Ignoring John's question, Sherlock turned on Mycroft, demanding, "I need a list of the D'Angeline ambassador's privy council, in order of net worth, from least to most."

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, head tipped thoughtfully. Then his brows shot up and he breathed, "Oh."

Sherlock grinned ferally.

"I don't suppose you'd care to fill me in," John prompted.

"Allow me to see what resources I have available," Mycroft said. He set down his teacup and saucer and left the room with quick steps.

Sherlock twisted around and gripped John's shoulder, still grinning madly. "Think, John! Bryony adepts are _financial experts_. Danielle nó Bryony knew something or discovered something out of place in her client's financial records — most likely criminal, possibly to do with D'Angeline government accounts. Her client felt threatened. She went to leave, perhaps to report her findings to her superiors, and her client struck her. It was wildly done, impassioned, not meticulous or planned."

"All right, I can see that," he agreed, picturing the damage to the poor woman's skull. "But her marque —"

"It means nothing. It was done to throw us off, the same reason the Valerian and Moreau were killed. How better to hide one murder than to make it one of a set?"

For a moment, John thought to protest. This seemed a stretch even for Sherlock's usual brilliance. But then he realised something else didn't fit. "The coffee cup," he said suddenly. "The other murder weapons were intentional."

"Precisely. This" — Sherlock picked up the papers, shaking them at John — "is meant to throw us off the killer's trail."

"What does this have to do with the privy council, though?"

"They would never trust a local to oversee their finances — only the members of Bryony House — in the same way that they only trust their security to the Cassiline Order, not MI5."

The pieces fell into place: a member of the privy council, a Cassiline who seemed young for her rank, and a Bryony adept who'd been murdered.

"But then, Lieutenant Desrosiers knows..." John went cold inside.

Sherlock nodded. "Now all that's left is to find out who she's protecting, and why."

* * *

It was pushing half-nine before they left Mycroft's, and nearly ten by the time they returned to Baker Street. After a quick shower to try and wake up, John managed to get into Speedy's just as Pam was closing the café. "Medical emergency," he told her, giving her his most profound puppy dog stare.

She laughed and opened the door for him, and then locked it once he was inside. "His Highness?" she asked sympathetically. Anyone who worked at Speedy's eventually learned how bad Sherlock could occasionally get. John had spent more than a few long evenings at a back booth with a newspaper and a sandwich in an effort to give himself a break from Sherlock.

It was a mark of how strange his life had become over the last twenty months that he said, "Just a couple of murders."

"Pulling an all-nighter?" she asked. When he nodded, she went to turn on the espresso machine. "Anything interesting? I hope it's at least exciting. You put up with so much from him and all that, you really deserve more credit than you get. You're the one who writes it up on your blog! Put more about yourself in."

Accustomed to her chatter, John just nodded at the appropriate places and kept an eye on the coffee. She tended to get distracted, and John was in a rush. Sometimes, it was as if she didn't understand the concept of 'shut up and serve the customers'.

Five minutes later, he met Sherlock outside and offered a large paper cup. The plastic bag slung over his arm crinkled. "Extra sugar, and she gave us some leftover pastries."

Sherlock ignored the cup as he took a folded maroon cloth out of his coat pocket. "Good. You're always complaining about eating when we have more important things to do." He shook the cloth out, revealing a short scarf, the fringed ends ripped and spotted with what John had come to recognise as acid burns.

"What's this?" he asked as Sherlock wound the wool around John's neck. It wasn't long enough to fit properly. It smelled vaguely like cigarettes and woodsmoke.

"A scarf. Do pay attention," Sherlock snapped, winding the wool around John's neck.

It wasn't just a scarf, John knew. It was _Sherlock's_ scarf, probably from school. Loaning it to John, who kept forgetting to buy one of his own, was a perfectly reasonable, perfectly _normal_ thing to do — for anyone who wasn't Sherlock.

Just when he'd thought the day couldn't get any stranger.

Then Sherlock was back to his normal self. He snatched at his coffee cup and said, "Hurry up, John. We need to find a taxi."

"How exactly are we planning on doing this?" John asked as they started for the corner. His apprehension was returning, now that they were out of the flat and on the move. He kept thinking back to how well-armed the Cassiline soldiers were. After Sherlock had told him their intended destination, he'd left his gun back at the flat, but now he was second-guessing that decision.

"We'll hardly need to _do_ anything." Sherlock switched the coffee cup to his other hand and waved at a passing taxi. It swerved to the curb, window rolling down. "Westminster Temple of Elua," he told the driver.

"And you really don't want to call in Lestrade?" John asked as the taxi got moving. He braced his coffee cup between his knees and dug into the bag for the pastries.

"Absolutely. Mycroft's condition for giving me the privy council financials was that we let the D'Angeline government have first crack," Sherlock said flatly.

John took out one pastry without checking to see what it was. "Here, eat." He pressed it into Sherlock's hand and let go, giving Sherlock the option of taking it or wearing it on his neat black trousers.

"I don't eat —"

"You've solved it already, so don't try that excuse," John interrupted. He pulled out what felt like a slightly over-dry scone and bit into it, too hungry to care if it was stale. "This next part's nothing but your theatrics."

Rather than taking offence, Sherlock smirked. "I'm a quarter D'Angeline. It's _expected._"

John barked out a laugh and concentrated on making short work of the scone. By the time he was done, the coffee had cooled enough that it was no longer hazardous to drink.

"We're not involving your grandmother in this, are we?" he asked as he worked steadily down toward the sludge of espresso at the bottom of the cup. He'd spent six months stationed in Turkey and knew how to drink coffee that hadn't been drip-brewed with filter paper.

"Of course not. She's a priestess of Naamah, not Elua."

John's hand twitched, washing gritty espresso over his tongue. He coughed and wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin. "She's _what?_ But they're — Naamah's the, uh, goddess of... sex, isn't she?"

Sherlock was staring at him oddly. "That's how she met my grandfather, during World War II."

John knew that D'Angelines were much more open about sexuality, but this was almost more than he could handle. He fumbled for something safe to say. "That's why her robe is red, isn't it? The other priests wore blue."

Sherlock gave him a bright, approving smile. "So you _do_ observe. Now you just have to make a habit of it."

* * *

By tradition, the doors to the Temple of Elua never closed, though unobtrusive Cassilines in grey, unarmed save for their daggers, stood guard in the shadows. Sherlock swept past them as if he owned the place, John jogging at his side, grateful for the caffeine that had kept him alert until it was time for the adrenaline to take over.

They were met by a barefoot older priest with iron-grey hair falling loose over his shoulders. He greeted Sherlock with a kiss and soft-spoken D'Angeline. _"Merci,"_ Sherlock murmured, turning to John as he unbuttoned his coat. "Mycroft and the Regional Prefect are already here."

The priest led them to the hallway on the left, past the lockers. "Shoes?" John asked quietly.

With a brief shake of his head, Sherlock looked at the windowed side of the hall, overlooking the night-dark garden. "We won't be going into the sanctuary." That made John feel a bit better. If this all fell apart, he might be unarmed, but at least he could run.

To John's surprise, they were shown to a well-appointed conference room, complete with an oval table of pale gold wood and about two dozen leather executive chairs. In keeping with his falsely modest persona of a 'minor government official', Mycroft was seated about halfway down the far side, rather than at the head. Once again, he was armoured in a three-piece suit, complete with a chain draped across his waistcoat.

John silently decided that if Mycroft tried to give him the kiss of greeting, he'd get John's best left hook in response, D'Angeline tradition or not.

At Mycroft's side was a stern-faced man in an ash-grey suit that looked even more formal than Mycroft's. He wore a blood red baldric across his chest that matched the vambraces that John could barely see peeking out from under his sleeves. His hair looked like it had never been cut. It hung down in a tail at the back of his neck, bound with elastic every inch or so, turning it into a thick club.

"Prefect Comtois, my brother, Sherlock Holmes, and his companion, Captain John Watson," Mycroft said smoothly as he rose. John followed Sherlock's lead, shaking hands with both men across the table. Sherlock took a seat several places down, where he could watch both the door and his brother. Hoping everything stayed civilised (or at least not openly hostile), John opened his jacket and sat down beside Sherlock.

Mycroft's gaze fixed to John's hands as he unwound the maroon scarf. Then he met John's eyes and smiled briefly, like a hungry shark. He made no comment, but instead turned back to the Prefect and took up a conversation with him in D'Angeline.

"Don't tell me I'm going to have to take lessons," John muttered softly to Sherlock.

"You can start with the book _Grand-mère_ gave you," Sherlock said loudly enough that Mycroft jerked in surprise, and the feral smile jumped over to Sherlock's lips.

After a moment to recover, Mycroft asked, "You met our grandmother, John?"

"This afternoon, yes," John said, wondering how to forestall another fit of sibling rivalry.

"Did I forget to mention that?" Sherlock asked innocently. "She gave John Grandfather's copy of _Trois Milles Joies_."

John knew he was missing a great deal of subtext, but he refused to let it concern him. He'd never before seen Mycroft truly shocked and wanted to bask in the moment. The details could wait until later.

Mycroft had no chance to come up with a witty retort. The conference room doors opened and a fair-haired man entered, blue-robed and barefoot. Mycroft rose first, leaving the others to follow his example.

"Please, let's not stand on formality," the man said without a hint of an accent. He walked to the far side of the table, smiling first at John, perhaps because he was the closest. "Brother George Masters," he said, holding out his hand.

"John Watson," he responded, reminding himself not to be surprised at the perfectly common English name. He knew the Eluine faith accepted non-D'Angeline priests. There was a D'Angeline seminary in Canterbury that had offered not only religious instruction but also a top-notch engineering program.

Brother George introduced himself to Sherlock, asking, "You're Nicolette's grandsons, then?" as he glanced over to Mycroft.

"Yes, we are. Mycroft nó Dahlia-Holmes," Mycroft said as George went around that side of the table.

John shot Sherlock a startled look. "What?" he barely breathed, thinking he had to have misheard Mycroft's introduction. That or the 'nó Dahlia' part of his name was a title he'd inherited from Nicolette or... or _something_.

There was no opportunity for Sherlock to answer. George sat down at the end of the table closest to where they were all sitting. "I understand this is a delicate matter, and would ask that you all speak freely and truly. In Blessed Elua's name, will you all agree to do this?" The question held the weight of a legal oath.

"I will," they agreed, John last of all. He resolved to do whatever was necessary to learn at least a little bit about D'Angeline culture at the first opportunity. Hopefully Nicolette's book would help.

"Are you aware, Reverence, of the unfortunate murders of three D'Angeline adepts?" Mycroft asked.

Brother George nodded sadly. "Blessed Elua keep them. I was afraid that was the matter of urgency you mentioned, Prefect."

"It gets more complicated, Reverence," Prefect Comtois said bluntly. He nodded towards Sherlock and said, "Mr. Holmes believes one of the Order is involved, if not guilty of the murders herself."

"Involved, yes," Sherlock corrected. "The first murderer is Ghislain de Garmeaux of the privy council."

"What?" Comtois demanded, almost shouting in his surprise.

"Apprentice Danielle nó Bryony handled de Garmeaux's finances. She discovered something de Garmeaux wanted to keep hidden — at the cost of her life."

The Prefect took a breath to continue, but George raised his hand for silence. "We can uncover this evidence, but what has that to do with the other two murders?"

"They were meant to cover up the motive for the first. Three murders indicates a serial killer. Focussing the attacks on each victim's marque turns the motive to envy or hatred for adepts, diverting attention from the way the Bryony apprentice was killed."

"And the basis for your accusation against Lieutenant Desrosiers?" the Prefect asked, looking back across the table at Sherlock, who simply raised a brow and turned to Mycroft.

Smoothly, Mycroft said, "As most of us are aware, the Cassiline Order provides security for members of the privy council."

"Only oathbound Cassilines are permanently assigned as Companions," the Prefect said. "The rest, including Lieutenant Desrosiers, are assigned only when needed. Desrosiers would have had no more or less contact with de Garmeaux than any other member of the Order."

"True. But Desrosiers _was_ involved in the investigation of the first and second deaths." He turned to Brother George and asked, "Is she here yet?"

"Forgive my brother's rudeness, Reverence," Mycroft said immediately. He ignored Sherlock's glare.

George smiled kindly and nodded. "She is. I wanted to speak with you all alone first."

Without bothering to ask permission, Sherlock pushed his chair away from the table and went for the door. Mycroft pointedly failed to hide his resigned sigh at Sherlock's behaviour, though Brother George, who was apparently in charge, didn't seem to mind.

Sherlock opened the door and called Bernadette into the conference room. She had a stony expression that hid whatever she was thinking about the late-night gathering. She nodded, first to George, then to the Prefect, and clasped her hands behind her back, remaining at the far side of the table. Sherlock remained by the door, slouching against the wall, arms crossed casually over his chest.

"Lieutenant Bernadette Desrosiers," Prefect Comtois said as he rose.

Her chin came up a bit. "Prefect."

He spoke sharply to her in D'Angeline, before repeating himself in English: "By your oath to Cassiel, you are charged to answer our questions truly and fully. Do you so swear?"

_"Par mon serment, je le jure,"_ she said. Her gaze flicked to John and Mycroft before she added, "I do so swear."

"Reverence," Mycroft interrupted as the Prefect drew breath to continue speaking, "would you mind if we continued this in English? I believe we're all fluent enough that it should serve our purposes."

"If there are no objections," George said, glancing around the table. Then he nodded and told the Prefect, "Please continue."

Prefect Comtois gave Brother George a respectful nod. He sat down and turned his chair to face Lieutenant Desrosiers. "Over the course of your duty to the Embassy of Terre d'Ange, have you served as a guardian to Ghislain de Garmeaux?"

"I have, Prefect," she acknowledged.

"When was the last time?"

"Three days ago, Prefect. He went shopping, but when there was an irregularity with his credit cards, he asked to visit Bryony House."

"Danielle nó Bryony," Sherlock said, pushing away from the wall.

Bernadette's shoulders tensed even more. "I could not swear to that, Mr. Holmes," she said carefully. "I waited for him in the lobby. His business was private."

"And yesterday? Did he visit Valerian House?"

"No, sir."

Sherlock took a step forwards. "But _you_ did," he accused. Her flinch might have been caused by the menacing way he leaned close, but John had watched Sherlock's technique enough to recognise a target's guilt when he saw it.

"What are you insinuating?" Prefect Comtois demanded, rising in anger. "_If_ the lieutenant visited the Night Court —"

"Not 'if'," Sherlock cut in, pacing close behind Bernadette. "Prefect, a Cassiline with a warrant can access almost any D'Angeline territory. Am I correct?"

"Only Prefect-level authority is required to break the seal of a Dowayne, Councillor, Member of Parliament —"

"_Almost_ any territory," Sherlock emphasized. "Do pay attention, Prefect." He was insufferably smug, as was his habit in front of an audience.

Mycroft coughed delicately. "I believe that we are familiar with the law, Sherlock," he said, projecting a definite air of _'get on with it'_. Looking from one Homes to the other, John noticed the contrast more than ever.

Sherlock gave his brother a disgusted glare before he turned to address the Prefect. "If you search the safe behind the lieutenant's desk, I believe you'll find not only her pistols but also a mask of Kushiel."

Bernadette went stiff, nostrils flaring as she inhaled sharply. With a sinking feeling in his gut, John turned away from watching her struggle to maintain her composure. He looked to the others instead and saw their recognition of her guilt.

Slowly, Brother George rose, leaning his hands down on the conference table. "Why?" he asked softly.

Where Sherlock's verbal attack had served to strengthen Bernadette's resolve, George's kind tone slipped right through her defenses. Her brittle composure shattered and she looked down, closing her eyes.

"He asked for my help." Her voice broke. She blinked and lifted her chin again, looking despairingly toward the Prefect. "He said he would ask for me as his _Compagnon Parfait_ when our duty here had ended."

Prefect Comtois' eyes went cold. "Three D'Angelines are dead. In Cassiel's name, I charge you now to bring them back."

Mycroft sat up, gaze fixed on Bernadette. George bowed his head. Confused, John looked at Bernadette, who had gone pale and wide-eyed.

"I cannot, Prefect," she whispered.

"Reverence, by your leave," Prefect Comtois said, turning to George.

With a sigh, Brother George took his seat and said, "As you will, Prefect."

The Prefect took a BlackBerry from the pocket of his jacket. He typed quickly, and a moment later, the conference room doors opened. Two Casselines entered, nodded respectfully to Brother George and the Prefect, and then stood to attention.

"In Cassiel's name, Bernadette Desrosiers is charged to be _Compagnon Parfait_ to Ghislain de Garmeaux of the privy council," he said. Bernadette closed her eyes and swallowed, her breath hitching. Coldly, Prefect Comtois continued, "Escort her to him, and inform him that he may accept her oath or give her to Cassiel's mercy. When it is done, return her daggers to me."

Bernadette finally looked away from the Prefect to the priest at the head of the table. "Reverence," she said, her voice thin, like a taut-stretched wire. "I acted for love of Cassiel and for Ghislain de Garmeaux, who was to be my ward."

"Love brings life, not the death of innocents," Brother George answered calmly. "Elua has no mercy for you, child."

One choked cry escaped before she clenched her jaw and nodded. "Thank you, Reverence. Prefect." She turned to her guards, who flanked her and escorted her from the conference room.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock said, "Well, if that's all, we should be going. John?"

John rose, but he didn't move away from the table. Unless he was very, very mistaken — and he doubted that he was — Bernadette Desrosiers would be dead before morning. "I understand the first two murders were in D'Angeline territory," he said slowly, ignoring the way Mycroft's eyes fixed on him, "but the third is under investigation from Scotland Yard. She needs to be arrested and tried under British law."

"Thank you for the reminder," Mycroft said, a hint of his shark's smile returning.

"Oh, it wasn't a reminder," John said with a smile of his own. "I was just saving you the trouble of saying it. You do work for the _British_ government, after all."

Again, Sherlock interrupted the silence. "I'll give Lestrade a call. I'm certain he's still up."

Brother George spoke up: "When Elua and the Companions landed upon the shores of Bhodistan, they respected the ways of the gods of that land. The people of Bhodistan gave Elua no worship but offered him no harm, and he walked among them unafraid."

"This is a Cassiline matter," the Prefect objected.

"There are proper diplomatic channels in place to handle this sort of unpleasantness," Mycroft said, finally looking away from John. "Shall I get things started, Reverence?" he asked, smoothly taking the matter out of Prefect Comtois' hands. Sherlock already had his mobile out to call Lestrade.

Thinking it best to escape before getting caught up in the politics, John said, "We'll leave you to it, then." Politely, he nodded to Mycroft and the Prefect before he gave Brother George a more genuine smile. "Evening, gentlemen."


	5. Chapter 5

"Tonight," John began as he dropped wearily onto the sofa. He put his feet up on the coffee table, even though he was the one to always complain when Sherlock did just that. It was laziness that kept him from taking off his coat and scarf, and most definitely not the fact that he didn't want to give the scarf — _Sherlock's scarf_ — back. Not yet, anyway.

"Where do you want to start?" Sherlock asked, throwing himself down on the middle cushion, rather than at the far end. Somehow, John wasn't surprised.

"The lieutenant," he said, wanting to get it out of the way.

Sherlock sighed, toed off his dress shoes, and crossed his feet beside John's. Even his damned socks were some posh designer brand. "By D'Angeline law, she and de Garmeaux both must die. If he accepts her as his _Compagnon Parfait_ — his Perfect Companion — then it's her duty to kill him and then herself. Otherwise, they'll be executed as soon as they're sent back to Terre d'Ange, no matter what happens in British court."

"Mycroft was ready to allow the whole thing to be swept aside." John looked at him. "He's _really_ an... an adept?"

"_Grand-mère_ arranged for us both to be interviewed when we turned sixteen."

_"Both?"_ John twisted around, his knee pressing against Sherlock's thigh. He couldn't help but try and see the back of Sherlock's neck, barely visible under his open collar. He saw no visible tattoos — only skin so pale that it must never have even seen sunlight.

Sherlock tensed and glared straight ahead, though he didn't move away. "Mycroft was immediately accepted into Dahlia House. They refused me — not that I was interested."

"I can't imagine why they couldn't see you as a diplomat," John teased.

A little of Sherlock's tension disappeared. He flashed John a grin, his eyes alight with amusement. "I didn't exactly make a positive impression on most of the Dowaynes I met. In the end, only a few Houses made me offers."

John laughed, leaning his shoulder companionably against Sherlock's. "You can't expect me to guess. I don't think I could name more than four or five, and there are... what, twelve?"

"Thirteen. But you know these Houses."

"Bryony and Eglantine?" John asked, though he knew that Bryony, at least, was wrong. Sherlock was good at maths as it related to chemistry, but had no sense for money. Money _laundering,_ yes, but not accounting.

"Eglantine, yes," he said, pleased. "How did you know?"

"Violin."

Sherlock smirked. "Half right, then. Definitely not _Bryony_."

John shook his head. "And not Dahlia," he said, naming the only other House that he knew wasn't focused primarily on sex. Sherlock had said earlier that adepts of Valerian House were able to obtain high security clearances, but that was _definitely_ not him.

But that left...

"Oh, god. _Mandrake?_"

Sherlock's brows rose. "You don't have to sound so surprised."

"But you — _Did you?_" he asked, trying to picture Sherlock as a sexual dominant. For a moment, it seemed impossible, but then he realised Sherlock was arrogant and perceptive enough that he probably could pull it off. Very well, in fact. "Oh, god," he repeated.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as though he were trying to determine if John was insulting him. "I didn't. It sounded incredibly dull — even more dull than university."

"Is that how you know that Adler woman?"

"No, we met a few years later, when I was back in Terre d'Ange. She was trying unsuccessfully to get an interview with the Dowayne. I helped her."

"Why?"

"To stop them from bothering me, of course. It was interesting, but crime is much more engaging. There's so much more to human motivation than just sex."

"Is that..."

Sherlock looked at him expectantly, but when John didn't finish his question, he sighed in exasperation. "This is hardly the time to get embarrassed, considering the book my grandmother gave you."

John looked at the book that was still on the coffee table. He'd been too preoccupied by the case to even open the cover. Now, he leaned forward, thinking for the first time of the translated title — _Three Thousand Joys_ — and the fact that it had been given to him by a priestess who followed the D'Angeline goddess of sex.

Cautiously, as though expecting the book to grow fangs and bite, he opened the cover and rifled through the pages. The text on the left-hand pages was in D'Angeline; on the right, English. The book was beautifully illustrated with line drawings — very _explicit_ line drawings.

A moment later, he closed the cover, blinking at the skull on the mantle across the room. It took him a moment to find his voice. "This... This is a textbook. On sex." He shook his head, trying to unscramble his thoughts. "You know, I thought I'd seen it all, in the military."

Sherlock shifted with an exaggeratedly casual movement, putting two inches of space between their bodies. "I can... bring it back to her. You've already promised on my behalf that I'll visit —"

"No." John looked at Sherlock, wondering what he was thinking. "Unless... would you rather I not have it?"

Sherlock looked away, eyeing the book. "You must know what she thinks is between us," he said very carefully. "We're D'Angeline. There's no..." He made a sharp, nervous motion with his hand. "Love is all that matters. Not gender or... anything else."

"For a year and a half, I've never heard you mention the word love, except as a motive for crime," John said softly. "Not until today."

A muscle in Sherlock's jaw went tense. He refused to meet John's eyes. "D'Angelines put an inordinate amount of significance into dreams and other superstitious nonsense."

"Your nightmare, this morning."

The tension spread to his shoulders. He glanced at John, though his gaze dropped to the scarf that John still wore, even though it was warm in the flat.

"You said I was gone. That was your nightmare — that I was gone," John whispered, sitting back from the coffee table. He touched Sherlock's arm and quietly asked, "Sherlock... Do you … How do you feel about me?"

Sherlock went very still, as though bracing for an attack. "I don't _expect_ anything —"

"That isn't what I asked."

Stubbornly, Sherlock turned away. "You're... important," he muttered. "I've never seen the need to give it thought. You're _here_. That's what matters."

John looked back at the book, thinking he could close the cover, let Sherlock return it to Nicolette. They would go on as they had, and John would always be trapped in limbo, torn between choosing the adrenaline thrill of life with his best friend — the man he really did love — and the promise of a bland, normal future. Or he could choose now, and there was no question at all which way he'd go.

He was an idiot. They were _both_ idiots for not realising this all sooner. "So you let your _grandmother_ take the first step for you."

Sherlock gave him the death-glare again.

Smirking, John leaned forward and picked up the book. He set it in his lap and opened it, saying, "You can't glare someone to death." Deliberately, he moved over, one hip sinking between the sagging sofa cushions as he leaned against Sherlock's side.

Sherlock huffed again and refused to look at him. He didn't move away, though, which John counted as a victory.

"A year and a half ago, you told —"

"Twenty months."

"_Twenty months_ ago," John corrected, "you told me you were married to your work." When Sherlock didn't react, John deliberately added, "That's twenty months wasted."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Have you read this?"

Silently, Sherlock nodded.

Trying not to sound as nervous as he felt, John hinted, "Then you can help me study — if it's not too boring."

This time, Sherlock's stare was less his death-glare and more the intense focus that characterised him on a case... or, John realised with a shiver, like the assessing stare of Mandrake Adept Trevere.

He had to look away, and turned his gaze back to the book. The first paragraph was a simple explanation of Elua's commandment: _Love as you will_. The rest of the page described different types of kisses — more than John had ever imagined.

"All right," Sherlock said, looking back into John's eyes as he leaned closer. "We'll start here. Page one."


End file.
